


and i would put them back in poetry

by Emmar



Series: such an almighty sound [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Asexual Character, Autistic Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Swearing, sort of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-26 11:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14999549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmar/pseuds/Emmar
Summary: Connor finds himself becoming attached to one more member of the Detroit Police Force-- a young analyst by the name of Reynolds, whose mannerisms are startlingly like many of his own.Or, in and around his work, Connor finds himself, with a little help from his friends.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ridiculous, self indulgent self-insert/original character fic. Because I keep seeing it and it's always romance. LET HIM HAVE A FRIEND. There will be ABSOLUTELY NO ROMANCE in this fic involving either Connor or the OC.
> 
> Whilst part of my such an almighty sound series, you don't need to read the first two fics to understand this one!

The aftermath of the android revolution is, to put it simply, a clusterfuck.

Oh, sure, the President made some big speech and they're technically citizens or whatever now, but change isn't as easy as all that. Detroit is the epicenter of a fucking explosion, metaphorically, and the DPD are the ones picking up most of the pieces.

Connor, despite everything, is very quietly rushed through the evolving system and offered - _offered_ \- a place as Hank's official, long-term partner. He accepts, of course, and he's issued a shiny ID card and his very own, absolutely legal firearm.

“How's it feel?”  
“...Good,” he says, setting the gun on his desk and turning the badge in his hands. “It feels good. I'm… glad? For the opportunity.”

Hank grunts, nods. The kid still can't articulate for shit when it comes to things he's actually feeling, but he's getting there. Probably helps that Hank's asking him at every opportunity, forcing him to examine his feelings. The rest of the force - minus Gavin, unsurprisingly - are adjusting pretty well to Connor being a full-time member, though he's hardly had the time to socialise. Hell, he's still living on Hank's couch - not that Hank's in a rush to kick him out. Nah, he's kinda fond of him, maybe. Hell if he's gonna admit it out loud or anything, though.

“Motherfuck,” he hears from a corner of the room, and when he turns his head to look, sure enough there's Reynolds, rubbing her hip and scowling at the desk she just walked into. He likes her well enough, she's a good kid, an analyst from over the pond who transferred in a few months back. She's at least as bad with people as Connor, and she doesn't have the excuse of being an android to fall back on.

“Hey Reynolds,” Gavin yells across the bullpen, “I dropped a file, you wanna come over here and pick it up for me?”

The ugly leer makes his meaning obvious, but Reynolds, god fucking bless her, doesn't miss a beat.

“Suck my dick, Reed!” she calls back, attention fixed on the folder in her hand. She flips him the bird over her shoulder as she goes, silver nail polish glinting in the fluorescent lights.

Connor watches the exchange, LED flickering yellow, and turns to Hank with a frown.

“Officer Reynolds doesn't possess a penis, does she?”  
“Nope,” says the girl herself, pausing beside their desks. Of fucking course Connor timed it that badly. She looks Connor over, tilts her head in an unsettlingly familiar fashion, and gives him a brief smile. “And even if I did, I'd still be a woman. And Reed can go suck a dick anyway, misogynistic prick.”

Connor seems to accept at least the former half of the sentence, neatly saving Hank from any kind of sensitivity training, and smiles back.

“I'm Connor,” he says, and Hank expects him to hold out a hand to shake, but he doesn't. So much for his social module.  
“I'm Inara. And it's Miss, by the way, not Officer - I'm only an analyst, ugh, I can't imagine doing fieldwork and having to talk to people, gross. And shouldn't you already know that? Like, don't you have files on everyone in the precinct uploaded to your brain or fancy scanners or whatever? Seems like one of the perks of being an android, having a built in database and internet connection.”

Shit, Hank forgot how much of a motor mouth she can be, but she seems to realise it too, snapping her mouth shut and focusing her gaze somewhere around Connor's collarbone. Connor tilts his head to one side - _that's_ where he recognised the damn gesture from - and blinks, once.

“Lieutenant Anderson informs me that it's considered impolite to scan people for access to their files instead of asking them first.”  
“Huh,” says Reynolds, and then, “cool. Anyway, I have paperwork to do. Nice to meet you, Connor! Say hello to Sumo for me, Lieutenant!”  
“And there she goes,” Hank mutters with a shake of his head, as the girl strides off, focus on her work again. She clips her elbow on the door on her way out, swears, and then absently apologises to the offending piece of furniture.

“...she is aware that the door frame is not sentient and therefore cannot hear her?”  
“I'm not even sure she notices she does it,” Hank admits, scratching at his cheek. “Seems to like you well enough, though. Maybe it's the goofy face.”  
“I was designed to integrate!”

\---

Connor's second interaction with Miss Reynolds comes several weeks after the first, and begins much more strangely.

It begins, in fact, with her pausing in her walk across the bullpen, eyes tracking something, and then making an impressive sliding dash beneath the nearest desk.

Connor's.

“Miss Reynolds?”  
“Bee,” she says, pressing her back to the freestanding wall that separates his and Hank's desks from the edge of the room.  
“I don't know what you mean,” Connor says, after a brief attempt to extrapolate.  
“There's a _bee_ ,” is the strident response, complete with an arm coming up from beneath the desk to point towards the far corner of the room.

A visual scan reveals that there is, in fact, a bee. A European or Western honey bee, _apis mellifera_ , highly unlikely to cause harm and only minor pain and swelling at that, barring anaphylaxis.

“ _Don't_ tell me that it's more afraid of me or that it won't hurt me,” Miss Reynolds mutters, curled up and resting her chin on her knees.  
“You must not be very comfortable sat like that,” he says instead.

His visual sensors begin to provide information without his input, still in scanning mode, and he catalogues it absently: Inara Zoe Reynolds, born 07/31/2010, female. Artificially dyed brown hair, grey roots. Green eyes, slight nearsightedness. There is a loose eyelash on her cheek. Several scars and flaking scabs signify that she habitually picks at her skin. The shape of her chin implies a significantly premature birth.

She tilts her head to one side and looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “I could do with a cushion or two,” she says with a shrug. “And you're awfully high up from down here.”

The first he cannot immediately provide assistance with, but the second he can. He carefully moves his chair aside and folds himself down to sit tailor style, with a clear line of sight to both Captain Fowler's office and the door to reception.

“Better?”  
“Yep! Thanks, Connor.”  
“It's no problem, Miss Reynolds.”  
“You can call me Inara. Or just Nara.”

Connor just tips his head a little, neither assent nor rejection, and Miss Reynolds narrows her eyes at him, then smiles.

“Sorry about commandeering your desk.”  
“I can work as well from here.”  
“Huh. Cool.”

This is how Hank finds them, several hours later.

“Alright, what the fuck,” he says, sounding more exasperated than annoyed, eyeing the two of them sat on the cold floor, one beneath a desk.  
“There’s a bee,” Connor says cheerfully, and points. The bee has been quite motionless for some time now, but is still present.  
“Oh, for-- it won't sting you, Reynolds--”  
“I am in prime position to punch you in the nuts, Lieutenant,” she tells him, leaning far enough out from under the desk to glower at him. Connor, still newly in possession of a sense of pain, shifts uncomfortably at the idea. Reynolds reaches out and pats him on the knee. “I wouldn't nut-punch _you_ , Connor. You're nice.”  
“I can be nice!” Hank protests, and Connor joins Reynolds in giving him an utterly disbelieving look. “Fuck both of you, then. Fine, stay under the desk, I'm not the one who'll get a disciplinary note for it.”  
“Uh, as ranking officer I'm pretty sure you're like, responsible for stuff.”  
“That made no fucking sense,” Hank informs her, and her response is-- Connor's database informs him the noise is commonly known as 'blowing a raspberry.’ Hank gives her the finger and stomps off around to his own desk.

(Fowler, when he emerges from his office, just sighs and asks Reynolds if she's working, at least. The tablet she waves in his direction appears to reassure him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inara, like me, is autistic, but she's not an exact copy of me; some of my mannerisms have been given to my autistic android son for this fic. Everything Connor's scan tells him, minus name and birth year, is accurate, though! An ~insight~ into the author. She also has more backbone than me.
> 
> Sexual harassment doesn't seem like a huge stretch for a dickbag like Gavin Reed, so uh. Expect more of that probably.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this developed plot?? Like some kind of growth?????
> 
> Prepare for probably bad accountancy, I am bullshitting based on my level 2 course, and a complete lack of knowledge of how police station work. also what constitutes reasonable adjustments.

Hank drags Connor down into the bowels of the police department in the early spring, citing the need for specialist knowledge to aid in their ongoing case - the trafficking and occasional murder of androids, apparently connected to the Red Ice trade.

“Lieutenant, I am perfectly capable of analysing information myself,” he protests, and Hank makes a dismissive sound.  
“Not on this level, kid. Haven't you wondered why Reynolds got hired when there are a hundred androids who could do the job?”

He hadn't, actually. He'd dismissed it as irrelevant to his interactions with her, but when the subject is brought up, he has to agree it's an apparently strange decision.

“Lookin’ for Reynolds,” Hank says to the room at large, when they step into the bullpen of the analytics department.  
“Ugh,” says one man, disheveled and unwashed, and points towards the corner office door. “Shut the fucking door behind you, okay?”

The reason for the request becomes apparent when Hank opens the door and the sound of heavy synthesisers, piano and off-key singing hits them like a wall.

“Thiiiiiiiis means nothing to meeeeee,” Reynolds is singing, from her place curled up in a reclining armchair in the far corner of the room. The only light sources are the screen of her tablet, a string of pink lights that circle the room at head height, and a tall lava lamp.

“Jesus, kid, some of us need our eardrums,” Hank says over the music - Connor forebears to say anything, which he feels shows admirable restraint - and Reynolds startles, shrieking.  
“Knock!” she yells, holding one hand to her chest, but lowers the volume nonetheless. A tap at her tablet brings the lights up, though to a lower level than standard. “There is a door! For knocking on!”  
“Yeah, yeah. Shit, didn't this use to be Carter's office? He up and retire finally?”  
“No, the office is part of my _reasonable adjustments for disabled employees_ ,” she says, with the tone of someone reciting something. “Bonus points, also keeps out the other dickheads in the department. Anyway! How can I help you today, el-tee?”  
“Look these over for me, tell me what you see.”  
“Ooh, boy howdy, I love doing things with no context,” she says dryly, but takes the offered handful of papers anyway. She begins to read, flicks to the second page, then pauses and glances up at Hank. “You need these back as is? Sit down, by the way, you're making the place look untidy.”  
“Nah, go wild.”

Reynolds hums and returns to her reading, now with an orange pen in hand. She mutters beneath her breath as she works, half-formed sentences that without context mean nothing.

Hank gestures to him, above her line of sight, and then points at two chairs against the near wall, similar to those kept in the interrogation rooms. The two of them sit, and Connor takes the time to observe the room. The lava lamp sits beside Reynolds’ chair, red wax drifting lazily, behind a table holding a can of carbonated drink and a neat stack of cookies, and there is a heavy filing cabinet in the other corner of the same wall. Beneath the window on the far wall from the door is a large trough containing English lavender, _lavandula angustifolia_ , which is flowering out of season. A square table contains the room's official terminal, which has a thin patina of dust, a ball of coloured fabric elastic bands, and a haphazardly stacked pile of wire bound notebooks.

“What the fuck,” Reynolds exclaims, and Connor looks over to see her flicking back and forth between pages, scowling. “There's like eight grand missing here! How the fuck do you lose money when you're double-entry, that's the _entire point_! Shit, none of these bank recs are consistent either, where the fuck did you find this, Lieutenant? Because I need to go punch this accountant in the mouth like, yesterday.”  
“Any idea where the money's going?”  
“It's being shuffled around between accounts and only losing a cent or two in the process, but there's no real way of knowing where it's being put unless you can hand me a dozen bank statements with matching deposits. God, people are the worst.”  
“You work for the police, Nara,” Hank says after a moment, and she wrinkles her nose.  
“Do you know how long my ethics module was, Lieutenant? Eight weeks. _Eight weeks_!”  
“Miss Reynolds,” Connor interrupts, leaning forward with his hands loosely clasped and his elbows on his knees. “The lieutenant and I are investigating a series of cases we believe are linked to the trade of Red Ice. We need to find the androids involved before they're killed, like the others. Is there anything you can extract from those files that might help us?”  
  
Reynolds goes grey, and swallows hard as she looks back down at the papers, crinkling at the edges in her grip. She nods, after a moment, and shuffles through the pile.

“Here,” she says, holding out two sheets of paper. “Purchase and Sales Ledger controls. It's likely at least one company is a shell, but it wouldn't surprise me if they're spreading it out across a bunch to cover themselves. Just-- shit, be careful, okay? Christ, I'm turning into my mum. Get out before I cry, go on.”

Hank pats her on the ankle as he takes the pages. “Thanks, kid.”  
“We'll be as careful as we can,” Connor promises, and she gives him a shaky smile and a thumbs up.

“Shit, you're good,” Hank mutters in the stairwell, and Connor raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. “Don't give me that face, you manipulated her. Body language, tone, pitch… fuck, how did I forget you could do that?”  
“It was a large part of my original programming,” he admits, pulling his coin from an inside pocket and running it across his knuckles. “Whilst capable of combat, I was designed primarily for negotiation and the talking down of hostiles, as well as calming hostages who may potentially escalate the situation and bring themselves harm in doing so. It was not difficult to adjust my methods to Miss Reynolds.”

Hank sighs, runs a hand across his face.

“Just-- piece of advice, try not to manipulate people who actually like you, okay? Honesty’s kind of important in friendships.”  
“I'll remember that, Lieutenant. Thank you.”  
“Social module, my ass,” Hank says, below the level of human hearing. “And would you put that fucking coin away?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love 80s music, and Inara is singing Vienna by Ultravox, aka the song kept off the top spot by shaddup a you face.
> 
> Also, I extrapolated a little on Connor's social module and its possible purposes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Nara in this one, but there's plot! Action! Uh, some violence and minor injury? So if you're squeamish maybe be careful?

Reynolds’ leads pan out, and the trail leads them through - as she suggested - more than one shell company, and then eventually to a condemned apartment building on the edge of the industrial district. A brief scan reveals no human-range heat signatures within, despite the heavy thump of bass music that can be heard from across the street. At such levels, it's difficult for Connor to distinguish between sounds - he _can_ do it, can hear Hank's breathing even beneath two hundred decibels, but it requires more processor power diverted to his aural sensors than he'd like to spare in such a situation - which is almost certainly why he doesn't hear their assailant until it's almost too late.  
  
There's no time for a warning, or a preemptive strike, only enough to lurch sideways and slam his shoulder into Hank's, the bullet shattering its way through his upper arm instead of his human partner's neck.  
  
“Shit, Connor!”  
  
Hank rolls with his fall, out of the path of another bullet, and fires his own retort. It catches the assailant in the hip and leg, and gives Connor enough time to regain his footing and strike a blow in return. The man - and it _is_ a man, pulse thundering in his neck - goes down with a howl, clutching at the knee that will never again hold his weight.  
  
Hank makes short work of handcuffing the man, radioing in to patrol for a pickup, and Connor ties a hasty tourniquet above his wound, wishing fervently that he didn't have the capacity to feel pain. He can function through it, but it makes focusing… difficult.  
  
“I'm fine,” he says to Hank, who gives him a wild-eyed look of disbelief. He scans the writhing, restrained human on the floor and realises why his earlier scan found no human-range temperatures: the man is shivering, body temperature artificially lowered by means of ice water. A ruse clearly designed to fool an android, which implies that he knew they were being investigated - and by who. “We need to re-evaluate our approach. Our targets are obviously aware of our investigation.”  
  
“For the love of-- you just got shot, dumbass!”  
“I'm fine,” he insists.  
“You're bleeding all over the damn place, you aren't fucking fine!”  
“Lieutenant--”  
“No. We're going wherever the fuck we need to go to get you fixed up, as soon as the patrol car picks up this fucker. I cannot fucking believe you threw yourself in front of a bullet for me, shit, I should kill you myself.”  
  
At this point, Connor stops listening, just lets Hank's angry muttering wash over him, and focuses on stemming the bleed. Dropping into his mind palace dilates his sense of time, and allows him to conduct a brief scan of his surroundings. There are scattered patches of dried thirium, empty spaces that imply the existence and removal of some sort of table, and meat hooks hanging from the ceiling - thankfully devoid of thirium traces - and an empty oil drum filled with kindling, still burning, several lengths of metal beside it. There is, he acknowledges regretfully, no chance of analysing any of the thirium present - or at least, not on this particular visit. He's fairly certain that if he takes so much as a step, Hank is going to physically restrain him, or at least make a spirited attempt, and it isn't worth the effort right now. He can wait for a day.  
  
“I do not require any specialist equipment or treatment,” he tells Hank, once the patrol car arrives, and ignores the skeptical look he gets in return. “Really. Cauterisation is an efficient repair tool for androids - it seals the synthskin and allows our internal repair systems to begin working without losing more thirium.”  
“...what,” Hank says, and as Connor opens his mouth to repeat himself, waves a hand in dismissal. “I heard you, I'm just processing the fact that you, what, want me to stick a hot poker through your arm?”  
“...in essence,” he agrees, and Hank groans and covers his face with a hand.  
“This is a terrible idea and I'm doing it under duress,” he says firmly, pointing a finger at Connor. “Got it?”  
“Got it.”  
  
Hank retrieves one of the shorter pieces of metal from the floor beside the oil drum, and gestures for Connor to lay down.  
  
“I am perfectly capable of staying on my feet,” he says, but lays down nonetheless, watching as Hank pulls his sleeve down over his hand before taking up the metal and setting it in the flames.  
“I don't think you really understand how much this is going to hurt, kid,” the human says, and to Connor's surprise, kneels down beside him and settles one knee against Connor's shoulder and the other his elbow.  
“Hank?”  
“On three, okay?”  
“Okay,” Connor says, bewildered.  
“One, two--”  
  
Hank slams the metal through his arm on _two_ , following the path of the bullet, and Connor _screams_ , attempting to get away from the pain in any way possible, but Hank just grimaces and leans his weight down, pinning the android to the floor.  
  
“Told you,” he says as he removes the metal and throws it aside, looking disgusted with himself. “Deep breath, kid, the worst is over.”  
  
Deep breathing exercises won't theoretically assist an android in any way, but Connor complies anyway - no other android feels pain, so there's no evidence to prove or disprove the efficacy of human pain reduction techniques as yet. The pain doesn't lessen, as such, but focusing on the flow of air through his systems, cooling his thirium pump regulator, lets him push it aside. A scan reveals that the cauterisation was successful, and his autonomic systems are already working to repair the damage done by the bullet. For now, there is a hole through his arm, but the synthskin will eventually regrow to cover it, although--  
  
“I should cover the wound,” he says, blinking away the myriad error messages in his field of vision. “Foreign matter may impede repairs.”  
“Yeah,” Hank says, offering him a hand up but not meeting his eyes. Connor takes it, studying his partner's face and reading shame in the corners of his lips. He doesn't understand it-- he'd asked Hank to help him, couldn't have done it himself, so why--?  
“Hank--”  
“Gonna need to find something to wrap that,” he says, turning away brusquely and making for the two officers at the patrol car, both of whom are staring at them, no doubt thanks to Connor's scream. The android feels his face heat abnormally, and knows he will be blushing, cheeks blue. It's the first time he's felt such a sensation, and he… Doesn't like it. He takes another deep, cooling breath, pushes away the throbbing of his arm, and follows Hank. They can talk about it later.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inara's back!! This chapter features: Gavin Reed being A Douchebag, Hank's POV, swearing because it's Hank's POV, probable abuse of italics, and HUGS.

The taxi ride back to the precinct is full of awkward silence, broken only by the metallic plinking of Connor's quarter as he flicks it from hand to hand. Hank would usually tell him to cut it out - it's annoying as hell - but right now? God, he can't even make himself look at the kid. He bolts out of the taxi as soon as the doors start to open, forces himself to wait and hold the door open until Connor catches up, and then of course-- _of fucking course_ Gavin Reed is laughing his obnoxious laugh as they step into the bullpen. When he sees them, he laughs harder.  
  
“Shit, speak of the devil,” he says, grinning his shit-eating grin, and Hank already wants to punch him in the mouth.  
“I miss a punchline?” Hank grates out, and Reed bares his teeth, gaze sliding over to Connor.  
“Fowler said the plastic got himself shot. Reynolds _freaked out_ , thought she was gonna have a breakdown right here. Dinner _and_ a show.”  
“You wanna fuckin' go, Reed?” Hank snarls, because he just had to fucking put a _red hot poker_ through the arm of an android who barely understands pain, and now Reed's laughing about Reynolds reacting to the news badly? It's always been easy for Hank to redirect his self-hatred outwards, and there has never been a more deserving target.  
“Shit, old man, chill out,” Reed laughs, “wouldn't want you to pull something.”  
  
Hank's hands clench into fists without his input, and just as he's about to well and truly snap, give Reed a beating that'll make Perkins’ broken nose look like a _paper cut_ , Connor's hand closes around his sleeve, pulling the cuff tight around his wrist.  
  
“I've read that manners don't cost anything, but maybe you're just exceptionally poor,” the android says conversationally, and practically _drags_ Hank in the direction of analytics while Reed is still regaining his bearings.  
  
“...Thanks,” Hank manages after a moment, almost inaudible beneath the sound of their shoes on the stairs, and Connor flashes him a brief, relieved-looking smile.  
“Wouldn't want Captain Fowler to turn your disciplinary file into a whole trilogy,” he quips, and Hank lets some of his anger - at himself, at Connor for asking it of him, at the asshole who fired the gun in the first place - bleed away.  
“How about you shut the fuck up,” he says, with absolutely no heat, and Connor's grip on his sleeve finally relaxes.  
  
The two of them make a beeline for Reynolds’ office as soon as they're on the right floor, and Hank pauses in the already open doorway to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The only light is coming from a gently glowing bottle of glitter, and the planes of the girl's face are barely visible.  
  
“Hey, kid,” Hank says, and if his voice is a little softer than normal, well, he's pretty sure neither her or Connor will tell anyone.  
  
Her gaze snaps up to him, and then from him to Connor, and then she's scrambling to her feet and practically throwing herself across the room at them.  
  
“I-- I told you to be-- be c-c-careful,” she sobs, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing.  
“Careful as we could be,” Hank says, by way of apology, and she hiccups, shakes her head vigorously, and tightens her hold. “Gotta breathe, Nara.”  
  
She squeezes once more, then releases him to inflict the same crushing embrace on Connor, who gives him a bewildered, verging on panicked expression, and then brings his arms up around her small, shaking shoulders.  
  
“I'm sorry,” says Connor, resting his chin on top of Inara’s head, as Hank carefully pulls the door shut and brings the lights up. “It's my own fault I was injured; I chose not to prioritise my audio sensors and Hank was nearly harmed because of it.”  
  
“Connor,” Hank says, tone firm in a way he hasn't made it for years-- not since _Cole_ \-- “if I'd been partnered with anyone else, I'd be _dead_. Don't apologise for saving my life, got it?”  
  
Inara, face pressed against Connor's chest, lets out a watery giggle. “Okay, _dad_ ,” she rasps, and Hank turns away to hide his smile.  
  
“Laugh it up,” he grumbles, running a hand over his face. “Feel better?”  
  
There's silence for a moment, and when he looks over, Inara is frowning. “Yeah,” she says, and then tilts her head back to look up at Connor. “Do you mind if we hug a while longer though?”  
“If it helps,” Connor says, and at Inara's nod, manoeuvres the two of them to the floor, him leaning back against the wall with his legs out, and her curled in his lap like a child.  
  
Shit, that is fucking adorable. Hank may or may not snap a couple of photos on his phone while Connor isn't looking - not that he's fooling himself that Connor doesn't _notice_ , but it gives them both some plausible deniability.  
  
Connor starts, for some godforsaken reason, narrating their encounter with the shooter, observations and all, and wonder of wonders it seems to calm Inara down. Thankfully, he glosses right over the hellish experience that was Hank shoving a piece of burning metal through his arm - “Hank helped me cauterise the wound,” he says only - and by the time he gets to them getting in the taxi, she's out like a light.  
  
“Set her in the chair and we'll go debrief,” Hank says, voice pitched low, and Connor tilts his head to one side.  
“I think,” he says at length, “I'd like to stay here for a while. You can report to the captain without me?”  
“...Yeah, okay. Call if you need me.”  
  
Connor smiles and taps his LED, and Hank snorts, pulling the door shut behind him as he leaves. Goddamn smartass android.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inara, like me, catastrophises extensively and, like me, pretty much shuts down and panics internally until it's resolved. [thumbs up]
> 
> Also, glitter bottles are really good for helping me focus and chill out!! You shake 'em up and watch until the glitter settles.


	5. Chapter 5

The human they arrested, one Andrej Kowalski, is either unwilling to tell them anything about the drug ring and android kidnappings, or - as he protests - is truly ignorant of any inner workings. Despite his ability to read microexpressions and knowledge that the man is lying about something, Connor can't work out what, exactly, is being lied about.  
  
“Take a break,” Hank suggests, and Connor pauses, coin pressed between the knuckles of his middle and ring fingers. “I dunno how it works for androids, but if they make you as close to human as possible, sometimes it helps to just… Chill out. Let your hindbrain sort shit out.”  
  
“I… don't believe it works like that.”  
“Shut up and get out, kid. Go visit that revolutionary leader, John or Luke or Mark or whatever.”  
  
Hank knows Markus’ name, Connor _knows_ he does, but he lets the comment slide. Hank no doubt thinks he's being funny.  
  
“Perhaps I will,” he says, eventually, setting the coin rolling over his knuckles again. “It's possible some Jericho androids have been victims, too, but they're still too distrusting of humans to come forward.”  
  
\---  
  
Standing outside an apartment in one of the cheapest parts of the city, Connor hesitates for a moment before he reaches out and knocks. The blare of 1980s synthpop quiets, and the door opens.  
  
“Hey,” says Miss Reynolds, blinking up at him blearily, apparently still half-asleep.  
  
“I'm going to visit Jericho,” he says, and she just tilts her head to the side. “Markus trusts me, but I'm unsure of how well some of the other androids will take my presence. I'd ask Hank to come with me, but I thought it would be better to ask someone less…”  
“Vulgar?” she suggests, grinning. “Drunk? Armed?”  
“Threatening,” he settles on, and she hums.  
“Sure. Lemme grab my shoes and jacket.”  
  
\---  
  
Markus knows Connor is coming, of course - his people report to him before Connor even enters the district that has been grudgingly gifted to Jericho's residents, and he isn't alone. By the time the pair enter the church that's become Jericho's center, North is perched on the railing beside his armchair, cleaning beneath her nails with a knife, Simon is leaning against the wall behind him reading an inventory list, and Josh is making a show of speaking with some new arrivals.  
  
“Oh my god, _Connor_ ,” the human girl hisses, clutching at Connor's sleeve, at a volume that even humans would still be able to hear, “you didn't warn me he was even _more_ handsome in _real life_!”  
  
Behind him, there's a muffled snort of laughter from North, and Markus smiles his gentlest smile.  
  
“I'm flattered you think so,” he says as he steps forward, and the girl groans and slaps her hands over her face in a poor attempt to hide her blush. “As you may already know, I'm Markus. Welcome to Jericho, Miss…?”  
“Reynolds,” Connor provides, and then twitches as the girl kicks him in the ankle, and smoothly continues, “though she prefers to be called by her forename, Inara.”  
“Nice save,” Inara mutters, and detaches herself from the android to shake his offered hand.  
  
She's the least threatening human over the age of majority Markus has ever seen, and he silently applauds Connor's decision to bring her with him; she's just disarming enough to set his people at ease without being an obvious placation. Her handshake is firm without any attempt at the dominance games humans usually play with such gestures, and when she bounds over to North and points at her knife and says, “can you throw that thing? You look badass, I bet you can,” Markus decides he likes her.  
  
Connor's visit isn't an entirely social one, it turns out, and Markus frowns as he considers the information that's been shared with him.  
  
“As far as I know, none of our people are missing,” he says apologetically. “I'm sorry, Connor, I wish I could be of more help.”  
“This is enough,” his successor assures him, but his gaze is elsewhere, and Markus follows it to where North is showing Inara the balance of her smallest throwing knife.  
  
“You like her,” he says, and Connor gives him a helpless look.  
“I barely know what that _means_ ,” he admits, and brushes a hand over his hair. “I feel-- I'm so far behind the rest of you, still. Emotions seem so _easy_ for you.”  
“And they aren't, for you,” Markus finishes, and sets a hand on Connor's shoulder when he nods. “That's okay. You don't have to have it all figured out. It's only been a few months, after all.”  
“It's… frustrating. But... I think I do. Like her,” Connor says, and Markus gives him a smile and a pat on the shoulder.  
“See? You'll get there.”  
  
Connor laughs, briefly, and shakes his head. The sound draws Inara's attention, and she bounces back over to them and wraps her hands around Connor's wrist.  
  
“North is the coolest fucking person I have _ever met_ ,” she declares, and Markus can't help his joyous laugh. The girl flashes him a grin as she begins to drag Connor across the room - willingly, because she couldn't shift his weight even if his mass was equivalent to a human of the same stature - and he goes, giving North a nervous glance that she returns with the neutral expression that Markus loves so much.  
  
It's the one she wears when she doesn't want people to know she’s happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... Actually have no idea how I feel about this chapter. But goddamn, it wanted to be written.
> 
> Also, y'all, Jesse Williams is SO HANDSOME, don't tell me he wouldn't be EVEN MORE SO in the flesh.
> 
> ps north is a knife-throwing murder bi thanks for coming to my ted talk


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff! Plot!!
> 
> Also, some sexual harassment at the start; an ass slap is the extent of it.

The temperature skyrockets as spring creeps towards summer, and Hank is so fucking glad the precinct is air conditioned.  
  
He's talking over what they know about the case with Connor, and when the kid’s gaze shifts, he follows it to Inara, who wiggles her fingers in a wave as she passes.  
  
As she walks past Reed's desk, he reaches out and slaps her ass.  
  
Inara busts out some fucking CQC-level shit that Hank did not expect to see from a five-one analyst, and she's shaking with rage as she twists Reed's arm behind his back, leaning her knee against his shoulder and pressing his face into the floor.  
  
“If you _ever_ touch me without my permission again,” she hisses, blinking rapidly but failing to stem the tears that start streaming down her face, “I will break your hand in so many places you won't be able to lift a _pen_ again, let alone a gun. Do I make myself clear?”  
  
She gets no response but a renewal of struggle, and she twists the hand in her grasp until Reed yelps and swears.  
  
“I said, _do I make myself clear_?” she repeats, voice scaling up an octave and coming perilously close to hysteria.  
“Fuck, yes, you crazy bitch!”  
  
Inara doesn't run, but she sure as hell isn't hanging around as she leaves, and Hank catches Connor's eye and tips his head in her direction. The android nods and follows the girl, his long stride letting him catch up quickly. Hank's ready to give Reed a piece of his mind, but as he pushes himself out of his chair to do it, the captain's office door swings open.  
  
“Reed,” Fowler says, calm and cool and oh, _shit_ , Hank recognises that face. Reed is fucking _in for it_. Gleefully, he decides he can leave his old friend to it, and hustles after his two new ones.  
  
He follows Connor's talking down the jumper voice into the nearest ladies room, where Inara, eyes red-rimmed, is scowling at him while trying - and failing spectacularly - to pull her hands out of his gentle grip.  
  
“Fowler's gonna fuck him up for this one,” Hank says by way of greeting, and Inara flicks her gaze to him briefly before resuming her attempts.  
  
“Good,” she says, “now will you _let go_ , please?”  
“Will you stop?” Connor says, and Inara drops her gaze, a flush spreading up her neck.  
“Yes, mum,” she mutters resentfully, and when Connor releases her hands Hank can see they're red raw. She puts her hands under the dryer without looking at either of them, and pointedly ignores Connor on her way out.  
  
“She was scrubbing her hands hard enough to make them bleed,” Connor confides as they trail her towards her office, and Hank makes a quiet noise of understanding.  
  
“Hey, Nara,” he calls, and she doesn't stop walking, but tips her head back and sideways, apparently listening. “Come for dinner tonight.”  
“...okay,” she replies, and gives him a brief, shaky smile.  
  
She puts antibacterial hand gel on her hands three times in the next hour, and he doesn't try and stop her.  
  
\---  
  
“You know,” Hank says dryly, watching Inara move around his kitchen, “when I said come for dinner, I didn't mean you had to cook it.”  
“Connor's taste buds don't work like a human's, and _you_ subsist entirely on beer and street food. At least I know I'll like this.”  
  
She has a point.  
  
“Jesus,” he says when she dishes up, “are you trying to ward off a whole fucking coven of vampires? I didn't even know I _had_ this much garlic.”  
“Garlic is good for you,” she says piously, nose in the air, and then points her fork at him, “and if you keep complaining _I'll_ eat it.”  
“Where does it all fucking _go_?” he demands, gesturing vaguely in her direction.  
“Your metabolism is impressive,” Connor puts in, from where he's quite happily sat on the floor, making a fuss of Sumo.  
“Speaking of metabolisms,” she says, twirling spaghetti on her fork, “do you need to like, top up? You don't have a bone marrow equivalent, right?”  
“That's disgusting,” Hank puts in around a mouthful of bolognese, and is roundly ignored.  
“You're correct,” Connor admits, “though the thirium I require is slightly different from the usual. I can consume standard thirium, but it's less efficient. The only place I can think of that would keep a stock is the CyberLife tower.”  
“Hell fucking no,” Hank declares, and Connor gives him those goddamn puppy dog eyes. “Absolutely not.”  
“Hank, the only people with access to the building will be former employees. I highly doubt any humans will still be there, and I'm the only android with clearance to get to the sublevels.”  
“I will literally pay you to let me go to the CyberLife tower with you,” Inara says, grinning, and Hank groans.  
“Sure,” he mutters, “let's make a fucking field trip of it, what could _possibly_ go wrong?”  
  
\---  
  
“You get out of my line of sight or Connor's and I will tan your goddamn hide, got it?”  
“Got it,” Inara murmurs absently, staring up at the huge, ugly-ass statue in the middle of the CyberLife tower lobby. Hank lets out an irritated noise and reaches out to shake her shoulder. “Stay in sight,” she repeats, briefly meeting his eyes, and he nods.  
  
He can see why she might find the place beautiful - it's a hell of a building, architecturally - but for himself, Hank's got a half hour’s too many bad memories to do anything but hate it.  
  
“Shit, this place is _amazing_ ,” the girl breathes, pressing herself right up against the glass wall of the elevator as it starts to descend. Every sublevel they pass through is empty, the androids woken up by Connor on the night of the revolution, and it somehow makes the space feel more oppressive rather than less.  
  
Inara bolts out of the elevator before the doors even finish opening, making a beeline for the nearest door.  
  
“Nara,” Hank hollers after her, but she waves him off and pauses before she pushes it open.  
“I promise I won't go anywhere else!”  
  
Hank shares a glance with Connor, who shrugs, attention clearly elsewhere.  
  
“This level should be reasonably safe,” the android says, palming a door open. “According to my records, it's parts storage.”  
“Be _careful_ ,” Hank admonishes, and Inara makes a quiet, dismissive noise as she keys in the door code Connor gave them. Hank grumbles under his breath and follows Connor, aiming for the next unopened door.  
  
Ten minutes later, he's found limbs, chest plates, and one particularly creepy-ass storage room full of eyeballs, but no blue blood, Connor's special formula or otherwise.  
  
“Anything?”  
“Enough standard thirium that the drop in efficacy won't pose an issue, and enough left over to supply Jericho for the foreseeable future besides.”  
“None of your special shit, though?”  
“Correct, if colourful.”  
  
There's a muffled shriek from another room, and the pair of them don't hesitate, heading towards it with weapons drawn.  
  
“Miss Reynolds?”  
“I'm fine!” Inara calls, which might be more believable if her voice wasn't an octave higher than normal. “Everything's fine, don't come in!”  
  
Yeah, that's a big no, Hank thinks with an eyeroll, stepping into the room ahead of Connor. Inara's standing in front of one of those weird android containers, hands over her mouth, and she seems fine. Then Hank looks at the android in the box and nearly drops his damn gun.  
  
“I don't understand,” Connor says faintly, hurt seeping into his tone, staring up at his doppelganger. At the neat model number printed on the jacket's breast:  
  
RK900.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAY HAVE A CLIFFHANGER, BITCHES.
> 
> Anyway the game literally took place over five days, they definitely had at least a prototype waiting to be rolled out.
> 
> Inara definitely knows enough self defense to fucking ruin anybody who tries anything she doesn't enthusiastically consent to, especially dudes who are twice her size.
> 
> Finally, spaghetti bolognese is one of like three dishes I know how to cook. Garlic is love, garlic is life.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot BELIEVE that the ENTIRE FANDOM has been sleeping on the MOST OBVIOUS name choice for the RK900. Y'all.

Connor is aware, distantly, that Miss Reynolds is speaking, pushing her small hands against his chest in a futile attempt to maneuver him out of the room, away from the android clearly designed to replace him.  
  
“I'm so sorry, Connor,” she babbles, the tension in her voice indicating she is near tears. “I didn't mean-- let's just go, okay, I'm sorry--”  
  
Connor sweeps her hands away gently, repurposing an action meant to dislodge an attacker's grip, and takes a step forward towards the RK900. He reaches out a hand.  
  
Hank's hand clamps down around his wrist, and Connor finally drags his gaze away from the android, categorising the lieutenant's expression as concern. Alarm.  
  
“Connor,” he says, and then nothing else. After a moment, he releases his grip, apparently having found whatever he was looking for, and Connor lays his hand on the RK900’s shoulder.  
  
It's no different than waking the others was, months ago, and a small part of Connor thinks it _should_ be, that this _isn't the same_.  
  
The LED at the RK900’s temple flickers to life, and it opens its eyes.  
  
They are blue.  
  
“Model RK900,” Connor says, and his voice cracks with an emotion he can't name. He swallows, hard, and tries again. “Model RK900, state your name and purpose.”  
“This model is a prototype designed for permanent integration into law enforcement organisations, with a focus on profiling, interrogation, and non-lethal close quarters combat. This unit does not have a designated name.”  
  
“Cain,” Miss Reynolds blurts out, and then clutches at Connor's sleeve. “Shit, no, that's stupid, I'm sorry--”  
“Thematically appropriate,” Hank mutters, and Connor runs the name through his database.  
  
Cain, biblical, elder brother of Abel. In a fit of jealous rage, murders his younger brother. Not entirely accurate, but uncomfortably close to current circumstances.  
  
“Accepted. My name is Cain. What is my mission, RK800, designation Connor? Lieutenant Anderson?” “You don't have a mission, Cain,” Connor says, and something possesses him to squeeze the other android's shoulder. “You're awake, and you're free.”  
  
There's a moment of silence, during which Cain blinks, tilts his head to one side. His LED whirrs yellow.  
  
“I do not know how to be free.”  
“...neither do I,” Connor admits, with a small smile, and beside him Hank makes a quiet, pained noise. “I've been figuring it out for a lot longer, too. I've been assured I'll… get there.”  
“Why have I been activated?”  
“It… felt like the right thing to do.”  
  
Cain seems to accept this, and steps out of his container. His eyes flick across Connor, Hank, and then Miss Reynolds.  
  
“Hello,” he says, “my name is Cain.”  
“Hi, Cain,” Miss Reynolds murmurs, offering him a thin smile. “My name's Inara.”  
“I am aware. Miss Inara Zoe Reynolds.”  
  
Hank groans and slaps a hand over his face, and Connor blinks.  
  
“...Cain, you _are_ equipped with the same social module as me, aren't you?”  
  
Cain seems to hesitate, briefly, long enough for only Connor to notice.  
  
“The social module was scheduled for installation upon distribution,” he says, and drops his gaze. His expression is incongruous with his stature, and brings to mind a child being scolded. “I… apologise?”  
“Oh, _shit_ , he's _adorable_ ,” Miss Reynolds whispers, apparently to herself.  
“Nara, _no_ ,” Hank tells her in an undertone, and Cain seems confused by the byplay. Connor runs several possible scenarios, but cannot himself infer any context or meaning.  
“Well, I mean, it _is_ kind of on me,” she says, and Hank folds his arms across his chest, expression unimpressed. Inara mimics him, scowling exaggeratedly, and they stare each other down for fifty-three seconds until Hank groans and throws his hands in the air.  
“Fine! Shit, why do I even bother, trying to keep you kids out of trouble is a full time fucking job.”  
  
“I don't understand,” Cain says, at the same moment Connor says, “I've missed something here.”  
  
Inara steps forward and takes one of Cain's hands in both of hers, and waits until he looks at her to say, “Would you like to stay with me, Cain? It doesn't have to be permanent, but I _am_ sort of responsible for you waking up in the first place, so.”  
“...that would be acceptable,” he says, and the girl smiles at him brightly. After a moment, LED flickering, he smiles back.  
  
“Did Miss Reynolds just adopt Cain?” Connor asks, bewildered, and Hank grumbles and nods.  
“Pretty much.”  
“...right. We should… go?” he suggests.  
“Yeah, let's grab your blue blood and get the hell out of here. I hate this fucking place.”  
  
\---  
  
RK900, designation Cain, allows himself to be lead by the hand by Inara whilst he consults his databases for the most accurate description of their relationship. Neither _handler_ nor _owner_ are appropriate for the situation, whilst _jailer_ implies a level of control and authority over him that she manifestly doesn't have. _Companion_ and _friend_ both require mutual fellow feeling that he doesn't know he's capable of. He frowns softly, considering, and settles on _caretaker_.  
  
“You know,” Inara says, tone light, “I suggested Cain because it was the first thing I thought of, but if you don't like it, I can call you something else. Even if you decide Cain is okay for now, if you ever want me to call you something else, tell me, okay? I know you've only just woken up, but you're still allowed to choose. You're always allowed to choose. Okay?”  
  
The question seems to require an answer of some sort, and Cain considers it. “Okay,” he parrots, and after consulting his databases, pats her on the shoulder as a gesture of comfort. “Cain is acceptable. Should I choose differently, I will inform you.”  
  
He is programmed to emulate human emotion, but actually feeling it is something else entirely. He thinks for a moment on his name, on its history and symbolism, and examines his burgeoning, newborn feelings. Yes, he thinks, Cain is acceptable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hank: this android is my son now  
> inara: you are like leetle baby, watch this


	8. Chapter 8

“You really weren't kidding,” North says, studying the hulking great Connor lookalike looming behind Inara, and the girl in question laughs sheepishly.  
  
“Yeah,” she says, drawing the word out, and Markus hides a smile, thinking of the message she'd sent North; _may have accidentally adopted an android, nbd nbd._  
“Welcome to Jericho,” he says, stepping forward to offer a hand, and the tall android blinks.  
“Shake it,” Inara prompts.  
  
He does.  
  
“My name is Cain,” he says, and his handshake is… gentle.  
“Markus. It's nice to meet you, Cain. How did you meet Inara? I'm sure there's a story there,” he adds slyly, with a sidelong glance at Inara, who gives him a falsely innocent expression.  
  
Something indefinable in Cain's expression softens, and it does more to remove him from his intended purpose than any change of clothes could.  
  
“She found me at the CyberLife tower. I owe my awakening to Connor, but Inara offered me… a place to stay. And a name.”  
  
Inara makes a quiet sound of protest and puts her hands on her hips, expression severe.  
  
“Cain, what did I say about names?”  
“Should I choose otherwise, I will inform you,” he says patiently, in the tone of a man who has had this particular conversation more than once.  
“Hmm,” says Inara, narrowing her eyes. “You better.”  
  
Cain inclines his head, gives Markus a brief smile, and goes to speak with Josh.  
  
“He's… almost nothing like Connor,” is all Markus can think to say, and Inara laughs.  
“Yeah. For all they were made for the same thing, with the same base personality… I dunno, maybe being woken up before he was thrown into things changed Cain. I'm… kinda glad, though.”  
“Oh?” Markus prompts, gentle, and leads Inara to sit.  
“Connor loves his job, but I dunno if Cain would want to do the same. And I feel like he's still not exactly on the same page as me regarding choice, you know?”  
“You think he would have returned to a job he didn't enjoy out of a sense of obligation?”  
“Mm,” the girl says, and Markus lays a hand on her knee gently. She spares him a smile, but her gaze drifts back to her new charge. “He's getting there, though. I keep making him tell me if he likes doing things, even though he mostly just says he doesn't have enough data yet.”  
“It's not always easy to process emotions when you haven't had them before,” Markus reminds her, and she snorts.  
“Markus,” she tells him, seriously, “I've been feeling things my _entire fucking life_ and I _still_ don't know what half of them are. Cain's _way_ out ahead of me.”  
  
The pair of them sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching Cain interact with other androids, many of whom are understandably wary of him, given his stature and the CyberLife jacket he's still wearing. Despite apparently not having a social module installed, he seems to have an instinctive talent for setting others at ease, making himself seem smaller. Even as Markus watches, he nods solemnly at a YK500 model who hasn't picked his own name yet and lifts the boy into his broad shoulders.  
  
“You guys have cosmetic functions, right?” Inara says, and Markus hums affirmation. “How much can you change? Like, did you choose to make your eyes different colours, or what?”  
“Ah,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck. “My blue eye was a… replacement. I don't actually know if I can change their colours; it's never occurred to me to try. I think minor skin changes are possible - freckles and things, a light tan - and hair colours. You'd have to ask North for anything more complicated.”  
  
Inara, thankfully, doesn't ask why he recommends North specifically, because North’s past is hers to tell or not, as she chooses.  
  
“Thanks,” she says, and then gets to her feet and calls, “hey, Cain, I had a really cool idea!”  
  
\---  
  
When Connor steps into the reception area of the DPD precinct, it takes him a fraction of a second to recognise the figure sat in the waiting area, hands clasped loosely and elbows on knees.  
  
“Cain,” he says, taking in the black turtleneck and dark jeans, and then, feeling foolish, “you changed your hair.”  
  
Cain gives him a small smile and brushes his newly-white hair out of his face.  
  
“Inara suggested a change might… make me less easy to mistake for you.”  
“Boy, you're six goddamn inches taller,” Hank says, attention on his phone, and then looks up and makes a choked-off sound that might be a muffled laugh. “Shit, you let her dress you? You look like a fucking chocolate box ad.”  
“Don't be a hater, Hank,” Inara says from behind them as she lets the door swing shut behind her. “The lady loves Milk Tray.”  
  
Connor shares a blank look with Cain at the utterly incomprehensible statement, and the larger android gives a minute shrug. A swift database search brings up a British candy brand and an advertisement that hasn't aired for nearly twenty years, the likelihood of Inara quoting it being… slim, but not impossible.  
  
“Are you implying you're a lady, Nara?”  
“Are you implying I'm _not_?” she ripostes, eyebrows raised, and Hank snorts and raises his hands in surrender. Inara sticks her tongue out at him and then turns to Cain, expression brightening. “Nice choice!”  
“Thank you,” Cain says, a faint blue blush painting his cheeks as he smiles. “We… match.”  
“Shit,” she says, laughing and aiming for the main doors, “guess I gotta stop dyeing it now, huh?”  
“ _What_ ,” says Hank, flat and incredulous, as the four of them step out onto the main street. “You're like, twelve!”  
“Twenty-eight,” she corrects, “and I've been going grey since I actually _was_ twelve. It happens. Anyway! You guys should come for dinner! Make fun of my box room masquerading as an apartment!”  
  
That said, she turns on her heel, only for Cain to gently take her by the elbow and redirect her in the opposite direction.  
  
“Making dinner requires having food,” he says, “which we do not.”  
“Ah,” she replies, and frowns. “So… food shopping?”  
“Food shopping,” he confirms, and offers Connor and Hank a smile. “Please do come. Six-thirty should suffice.”  
  
“Huh,” Hank says as the pair of them wander off, speaking quietly. “He's really growing into his own person, huh?”  
“So it seems,” Connor replies, and feels inexplicably proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cain: what are emotions  
> inara: emotional cognizance? i don't know her
> 
> Anyway I imagined Cain in a dark turtleneck and my brain immediately began playing milk tray adverts on loop so
> 
> a reference was made.
> 
> Inara definitely is like. Besties w north now. You know that friend you just yell random shit at?? That's them. North is not entirely sure how it happened but she's chill w it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when this burning trash heap had a plot? yeah me either.

Towards the end of summer, Connor goes to work early, sorts through their evidence once more, and periodically checks the location of Hank's phone. It's an agreement they've come to, that Connor will ping the Lieutenant's cell and, should he still be in the house by nine am, send him a reminder that work is not, in fact, optional. Captain Fowler had more than once expressed his gratitude to Connor for Hank's improved punctuality since November. At nine thirteen, Hank's phone is en route. At nine twenty, it is two blocks away.  
  
At nine thirty-eight, it's still two blocks away.  
  
At nine forty, as Connor steps out of the building, he receives a message from Cain.  
  
_Inara is missing_ , he says, panic clear in his tone even electronically, and Connor pauses.  
_Hank's phone has been in the same location for twenty minutes_ , he replies.  
_Inara's phone is on the coffee table. She's never left the apartment without it. There are signs of a struggle._  
  
There's a chance that the occurrences are unrelated, but a small one. Connor runs several simulations concurrently, and eventually concludes there is a ninety-one percent chance that both Hank and Inara have been kidnapped. Further extrapolations show an eighty-six percent chance that the culprit or culprits are linked to his and Hank's current investigation.  
  
He considers, briefly, informing Cain that he, as a civilian, cannot be part of the search, and almost immediately discards it. Cain is designed exactly as he was, but _better_. He's hardly set a precedent for following protocol in these sort of situations, anyway. He sends Cain the coordinates for the last location of Hank's phone.  
  
Between the two of them, following the trail is almost trivial, and it isn't long before they're stood before an apartment door a dozen blocks away. Cain's earlier panic seems to have melted away, solidified into resolve, and he gives Connor a firm nod as he steps back, letting the older model lead the way.  
  
Connor kicks the door in, announces himself as Detroit Police, but it's lost under a sudden, high-pitched scream.  
  
“Fuck you,” Inara screeches, sobbing, and beneath that Connor can hear Hank swearing sulfurously, bravado covering fear and concern.  
  
Connor takes point, stepping into the other room with weapon in hand, and slips sideways into his mind palace even as he moves.  
  
Hank: contusions, possible concussion, defensive wounds. Fought back before he was incapacitated.  
  
Inara: slight bruising around the neck indicative of a chokehold. Several shallow lacerations to the legs. Three fingernails missing. Incapacitated without issue and further injured on site.  
  
First assailant: holding a pair of pliers, in the process of turning to pick up a knife.  
  
Second assailant: going for a gun in a shoulder holster.  
  
Third assailant: pulling a gun from an ankle holster, moving to stand.  
  
Connor factors Cain into his calculations, aware that his successor is doing the same, and _moves_.  
  
His first bullet shatters the kneecap of the man with the knife, his second the elbow of the woman drawing from her shoulder holster.  
  
Cain efficiently breaks the wrist of the final man, disarming him and throwing the gun into the corner of the room, and then knocks him unconscious with a single blow to the head.  
  
Connor strides towards the far door, sending out a request for both an ambulance and a transport, and out of the corner of his eye sees Cain move to secure the remaining conscious aggressors.  
  
The rest of the property is clear, and Connor returns to the room to find Cain restraining Inara with his arms around her torso, her arms pinned to her sides, as she aims a kick at the head of the man who had been holding the pliers.  
  
“Inara, you require medical attention,” Cain says, and she ceases her struggles and drops her head back against his chest.  
“I don't wanna,” she murmurs, thin and pained, breath short.  
“How about we both agree we don't want to, and we do anyway?” Hank offers, untied from the chair but still sitting in it.  
“Don't wanna,” she repeats, “needles.”  
  
“The ambulance will arrive shortly,” Connor announces, and Hank gives him a crooked smile.  
“Hate to admit it, but someone might have to carry me down the stairs.”  
“You said you were okay!” Inara says.  
“Kid, compared to you, I'm fine and fuckin’ dandy. But right now there are two of you, and I'm stone cold sober.”  
  
“Amateur,” Cain murmurs, frowning at the three restrained humans on the floor. “Humans are unlikely to accurately calculate the necessary force for blows to the head to induce unconsciousness without further damage.”  
“I don't think Hank gave them much choice,” Connor says with a sidelong glance at his partner, who gives him a sharp smile.  
“Fuckin’ right I didn't.”  
  
An hour later, sat in the emergency room (“No booze, no sleep _and_ no painkillers?” Hank grouses, “fuck am I supposed to do with the rest of my day now?”) Connor watches his successor… _hover_. There truly is no other word for the way he watches, hawk-like, as the doctor cleans and bandages Inara's hand and legs.  
  
“Hey, Nara,” Hank calls from his own bed, “happy birthday!”  
  
Inara, well and truly under the influence of the morphine she's been given, begins to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun story: once, under the influence of an oral solution of morphine, I confused the hell out of my a&e doctor when I very seriously asked him how a pulse oximeter - the clip thing they stick on your finger - works.
> 
> anyway I love my hyper competent murder sons.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all we've done it. we've reached the end!! thank you so much for sticking with this as I basically vomit my feelings and various neurodivergences out in fiction over the course of like two weeks.
> 
> anyway, some plot wrap up, lots of fluff. worry not, though, this fandom hasn't let me go yet!

Inara spends more time in the bullpen, now. Loitering, she says with a grin, perched on the corner of Connor's desk. Cain is, by all accounts, refusing to be away from her side unless absolutely necessary; Connor can't say he doesn't understand. He may or may not have spent a week accompanying Hank to and from work.  
  
On the sixth of September, Connor arrives to the incongruous sight of a brightly wrapped parcel on Hank's desk, glittering and gleaming. The attached note, written in gold marker pen, bears the utterly incomprehensible words HAP BIRF LT in what he a moment later identifies as Inara's handwriting.  
  
Hank narrows his eyes at the parcel when he arrives, but snorts a laugh when he reads the note. He makes short work of the wrapping, brushes the glitter off of his hands onto his jeans, and shakes out a crocheted scarf in the shape of a mobius strip, the variegated yarn a mixture of browns, yellows and greens.  
  
“Fuckin’ kid,” he mutters, grinning, and slings the item around his neck. “How did she even fucking find out?”  
  
Connor blinks, once, processing, and his databases ping back the fact that today is Hank's birthday. Birthdays are generally celebrated with the giving of gifts, and Connor feels a guilty flush creep across his face.  
  
“I didn't get you anything,” he says quietly, and Hank looks up at him and frowns.  
“I wasn't expecting anything,” he replies, and shrugs. “The only person who even knows when my birthday _is_ is Fowler. Well, and apparently Nara. Somehow.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Perfectly. Unless you wanna swing by the store and buy me a bottle of scotch on the way home?”  
“Oh no,” Connor says, as flatly as he can, “I appear to be bankrupt. How unfortunate.”  
  
\---  
  
The human at the head of the red ice ring is nothing like stereotypes might have lead Connor to believe. No, the woman they ultimately arrest is healthy, not a user herself, and from a comfortably middle class background. Her eyes skim over Connor entirely and settle on Hank, disdainful more than angry.  
  
“It's a commodities market,” she says, looking entirely at ease despite having her hands shackled to the table of the interrogation room. “A commodity that has, since November, become much, much more scarce. Businesses work on supply and demand, and I could supply.”  
“By kidnapping androids, draining them of thirium, and then killing them,” Connor says, tone cold in a way he wouldn't hide even if he could. The woman's gaze slides to him, dispassionate, and she shrugs elegantly.  
“If there was a drug that had human blood as its main component, people would be kidnapping and murdering for that, too. Robbing blood banks. But the latter isn't an option for red ice, not since your _illustrious leader_ cleared out all the CyberLife stores in the city. Not even I'm stupid enough to try raiding their headquarters.”  
“No, just stupid enough to try kidnapping a DPD detective and analyst in an attempt to scare us off the case,” Hank says dryly, and she gives him a thin smile.  
“Lorin, Griselda and Dean were acting quite alone, I assure you.”  
“Uh huh,” murmurs Hank, and then leans forward. “Look, you're going down anyway, so you might as well spill about the rest of your operation.”  
“My subordinates sold me out,” she says, and her smile is knife-sharp, “so it's only fair I repay them in kind.”  
  
\---  
  
“I'm not saying I solved the case for you,” Inara says, idly waving a carving fork, “but if I hadn't got my dumb ass kidnapped, you'd still be sitting around with your thumbs up your arses.”  
“Hey, you weren't the only one who got nabbed,” Hank reminds her, ducking under her swinging arm and sliding a tray of potatoes roasted in goose fat out of the oven.  
  
Connor tilts his head to one side, watching them from where he and Cain have been banished to the kitchen table. It's strange, to him, that they can be so at ease with their kidnapping, even five months on. Inara, especially, doesn't have the training to handle such stresses, and as far as he's aware, she hasn't sought professional help, either.  
  
“I don't understand how inducing such stress levels is considered celebratory,” Cain says, as Inara carefully inspects a slice of carrot sliding off the sharp point of the fork.  
“It's _Christmas_ ,” she says, in a tone that implies that's explanation enough.  
  
Cain's baffled glance at Connor tells him that they agree that it is most definitely _not_.  
  
“Don't look at me in that tone of voice!”  
  
Connor has to admit, though, watching Inara exclaim over the box of string lights from Hank, watching Cain blush as Inara forces him into the argyle sweater she got him, letting Hank sling an arm over his shoulders and pull him close as the scratchy, unmistakable sound of a needle on vinyl filters through the house, that there might be something celebratory about Christmas after all.  
  
\---  
  
“Hey,” says a green detective to Hank, once, “who’re they?”  
  
Hank follows the gaze and pointing finger to the photograph on his desk: himself, a young woman with steel-grey hair and green eyes, and two young men with identical faces, one taller and white-haired and blue-eyed, the other dark-haired and brown-eyed, their twin LEDs blue and clearly visible. They're all four of them smiling, arms around each others’ waists and shoulders, a huge St Bernard laying on the floor before them, a brightly lit tree in the background.  
  
“Them? They're my family.”


End file.
